


Poetry of Logical Ideas

by Sergia



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, Or just short, Triple Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:12:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sergia/pseuds/Sergia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unable to resist any longer, the Doctor reads River Song's diary - and it's not at all what he expected</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poetry of Logical Ideas

**Author's Note:**

> Pure mathematics is, in its way, poetry of logical ideas - Albert Einstein
> 
> This has been sitting on my hard drive for ages. Meant to turn in into a longer fic but that's unlikely to happen. So here it is.

 

Her diary is nothing like he expected and he doesn’t know whether to love or hate her for it.

_You changed the future_

_It’s called marriage, Sweetie_

Ha! What truth, what devotion, what selfishness and what a _lie_.

River Song, his wife. Truthful when he resented her for it, lying when he loathed it. A devotion that took his breath and a selfishness that rivalled his own.

The woman who killed him, the woman who married him. The woman who gave all of her lives for him. Even now that she’s gone, saved to her own personal hell, her existence niggles at him.

For so long he’d thought her created for him – bred by his best friends, his oldest companion – trained by his enemies – tricked by him. He carried so much guilt with him, so much love for that mad, impossible woman but through it all he always felt she never had a choice.

_Who else was I going to fall in love with?_

In his hands is her diary. Worn and weathered and torn and very nearly falling apart with the volume of their adventures, their love.

And it’s nothing like he expected. There are no stories, no romantic waxing about their timey-whimey marriage. His wife’s diary reads like the mathematical tomes they made him study at the Academy. Painstakingly calculated temporal equations, crossed out and corrected and altered and smudged.

Oh River Song had always had a choice. She had manufactured her life to fit around his, rewritten time over and over again – to support and enrich and love and _save_ him. He should have known, really. She told him.

_I don’t want to murder you_

_Time can be rewritten_

He runs and runs then, away from the equations and unfathomable love caught in numbers and universal truths.


End file.
